Legolas' Turmoil
by Kala Dawson
Summary: Aragorn wants to ask our favourite Elven prince of something, but the most unlikely thing occurs at the most inappropriate moment... No new chapters, just revised the the second and third. Going to be revising the story before adding chapters, bad me...
1. Playful Banter

Aragorn absently twirled a good-sized length stick in the murky puddle, chin resting on his palm. Biting his lower lip unconsciously, he managed to free a rock from the bottom of the ugly mess, sending it bouncing over to a bottom of a tree. He lifted his gaze momentarily to watch it, only to look back down again at the brown mud. Before he could anything else, his actions were rudely interrupted by an innocent little acorn.  
  
Rubbing the top of his head, Strider glanced up, and upon seeing nothing, returned to probing the mud. A moment passed until another acorn met with Aragorn's head. Getting a little peeved, the future king of Gondor looked angrily up at the offending tree, only to see a crouching figure up in the strong branches.  
  
Legolas smiled warmly, daintily dropping an acorn down to meet with his comrade's forehead. He already was cradling an armful of the little nuts, and was fully prepared to use them all. Aragorn snatched a stray acorn from the ground and threw it up at the assaulting Elf, narrowly missing him. As a response, Legolas gratefully released the load in his arms, acorns plummeting down on Strider.  
  
Aragorn, once free of falling nuts, glared up at the Elven prince. "Dare I ask?"  
  
Prince Greenleaf swung gracefully down from his perch to a branch below. "Will it satisfy a Man's curiosity?"  
  
A grin crept to Strider's face. "Will I be allowed to chase you relentlessly afterwards?"  
  
Legolas peered down at him. Smirking, he straddled the tree branch. "Depending."  
  
Choosing not to touch the last statement, Aragorn returned to messing with the puddle of mud. Presently, yet another one of those pestering acorns greeted his head. Flinging flecks of mud up at the Elf, the Man growled back in his throat. "What do you want?"  
  
"Pay attention to me." Legolas rewarded him with an Elven delicacy the Elf had managed to swipe past Elrond's defenses.  
  
Catching the slice of brown, Aragorn looked up to see the sky blue eyes staring down at him playfully, a leg swinging freely to and fro. Biting into the Elvish treat - a chocolate with an orange taste - Strider raised an eyebrow curiously. The Elf proceeded to a lower perch, only inches higher than Aragorn. That a mistake the Legolas realized a second too late.  
  
Strider grabbed the unsuspecting Elf's foot, tearing off his boot and beginning to tickle the bottom mercilessly. Legolas, not expecting that, dropped all façades and giggled childishly, shrieking when Aragorn managed to find his very sensitive spot on his foot. Still having a grip on the tree, Legolas leaned to the other side in hopes to rid of Aragorn's pestering fingers, but instead found himself upside down, looking up at Strider with his pleading eyes.  
  
His eyes grew wider as did Aragorn's grin, trying to scramble away when two hands found his ticklish spots and began to tickle relentlessly. Strider caught the Elf when he lost his grip, taking him to the ground, still his fingers making Legolas laugh. Finally he wore out, grabbing the slinking Elf by the waist when he had dared to get away. Greenleaf reached for his boot, which had been abandoned at the tree's roots, but found that he couldn't move past Aragorn's arms.  
  
Strider hugged him close to his body, breathing huskily into his pointed ear. "I don't think so."  
  
Legolas whimpered, but settled into the comfort Aragorn offered. "But... my boot..."  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"It feels lonely! I need to comfort it!"  
  
Stroking the blonde hair, Aragorn pulled the most pathetic face he could. "So your boot matters more than me?"  
  
Legolas found he didn't have an answer.  
  
Strider kissed the Elf's cheek, keeping his arms around the lithe body. Legolas gave up and snuggled closer, turning around to face Aragorn, then rested his head upon his shoulder, arms around his neck and arm.  
  
Silence passed.  
  
Legolas pulled back to regard the Man quietly, leaning forward to kiss his lips delicately, receiving the same reaction. Aragorn ran his fingers through the thin hair, pulling back to smile at his Elven prince. "I love you."  
  
The prince straddled the king's lap. "I love you." He smiled like the adorable Elf he is, touching his forehead to Aragorn's. Giving his nose a brief kiss, the Elf stood and made a movement to his boot, but was stopped when a hand gripped his calf.  
  
"I need to ask you something."  
  
Before Greenleaf could question him, Frodo's voice rang out through the air.  
  
"Help! Help! I'm being repressed!"  
  
"Liar!"  
  
"Mr. Frodo, I think..."  
  
"Sam, go get Pippin! Tell him I need his help!"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I'm gonna rob Frodo of his marshmallows, but he keeps KICKING ME, so I need backup!"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"RUN, SAM! RUN!"  
  
Both Elf and Man turned blank stares at each other, two cocky grins appearing across their faces. Never a dull moment in the Fellowship, both mused silently to themselves.  
  
Never.  
  
~***~  
  
Unfortunately, Sam was too slow to retrieve Pippin, and therefore a Dwarf, Elf, and two Men had saved Frodo and were able to fight off the two insisting Hobbits. At last they sat peacefully around a crackling fire.  
  
Frodo sat between the security of Legolas and Strider, with Gimli and Boromir close by. Legolas, blissfully caught up in his fascination for staring at fire, didn't notice when Boromir gave a seemingly casual flick his of hand, and instantly, the seven other members of the Fellowship were on the Elf like a shark on blood, causing him to tumble backwards.  
  
The first to find it was Pippin. "I got it! I got it! Lookit `ere!"  
  
Merry jumped up to get a closer look. "Yeah! Good job, Pip!" He gave his cousin a hearty slap on the back. Legolas shrieked, struggling to his knees and hand snatching out to take the leather bag.  
  
"Mine!"  
  
But before he could grab it, Frodo was on his back. Literally. "Hobbits win!"  
  
Aragorn's swift hand took it from Merry's grasp. "MINE now!"  
  
"MINE!" Legolas lunged at him.  
  
"Boromir!" Strider threw the bag to the steward, who caught it deftly. Holding it high above his head, he had to keep from being run over from the mass of little people attacking his midsection. Gimli laughed heartily, walking up to Boromir and grabbed his arm, bringing it down to retrieve the sack.  
  
"Aha! The Dwarf has it now!"  
  
Legolas dramatically brought the backside of his hand to his forehead. "Everyone is against me!" Dropping his act, he lunged at the Dwarf. "Gimme back!"  
  
Gimli, unfortunately, wasn't quick enough, and was brutally attacked by an Elf, and the two toppled backwards. When the little quarrel ended, Legolas scampered up a tree and sat on a high branch, peering into his bag. Making sad noises, he pulled out the beaten remains of the Elvish treat. "You people are so mean to meee..."  
  
"We love you, Legolas!"  
  
"Shut up!" 


	2. Bloodied Sprite

Pulling the thin blanket tightly around his body, Aragorn curled into a stiff ball in attempt to gain warmth. Scrunching up his nose to snort at some interfering leaves blocking his makeshift pillow of clothes, he allowed his mind to wander absently, moving from the most absurd things as acorns in relation to his name to more important matters, such as Frodo and the Ring. Furrowing his brow, he brought up his hands to blow on them quietly, his fingers numbing from cold. The Ring. He sighed.  
  
Boromir, Gimli, myself, Frodo, Pippin, Legolas, Sam, Merry. Aragorn blinked, then recounted. Was that all? The Fellowship seemed so small all of a sudden, and the mere thought scared him. Eight? Was that really it? Just eight wandering men with no slight idea of what they were getting themselves in to with the knowledge that they could croak at any given time? How could there only be eight? Well, Gandalf had fallen to the Balrog, and his absence was greatly missed, yet… Aragorn shook his head briefly. He had better stop thinking, he told himself, before his thoughts come up with something absolutely un-called for.  
  
Which it usually did.  
  
Typical.  
  
His overactive mind traveled merrily over to the Elf. Unconsciously, a blissful smile reached Aragorn's face. Legolas. Their relationship was known and indeed encouraged by the rest of the Fellowship, much to the couple's delight. But lately the young king had taken the relationship to a deeper level, and of course Legolas didn't mind at all… but… he wished to ask the Mirkwood prince of a certain question. *The* question. The problem was, how? Where? With *what*? His plans were already foiled today thanks to the Hobbits (not that he minded, Legolas would rather marry his shoe like he had joked than consider that question now) but he, unfortunately, didn't have a ring or anything to present to the Elf, though he had planned to ask Elrond about it before they had departed, just in case. Kicking himself mentally at his foolishness, he was rudely awakened from his thoughts.  
  
A rustle of fabric caught his attention from across the remains of the fire. Sitting up on his elbows, Strider narrowed his eyes against the dark in attempt to figure out who had a restless sleep. The source of his disturbance came from a certain Dwarf, who had shifted in his slumber and rolled over on some of the charcoal Merry had 'accidentally' placed next to him after supper, along with a little spot of a gushy something that Aragorn would rather not know the identity of.. Boromir sneezed abruptly, followed by a murmur that sounded strangely like, "Those are my cookies… bugger off… aaugh, not the banana…" As if having the exact same dream as the Man beside him, Pippin squeaked out, "MY cookiiieeeeee, get yer own you banana thief," before Merry elbowed his ribs ungraciously.  
  
Deciding to check on the others for the hell of it, Aragorn sat up to view the small camp from his space on the floor. Frodo and Sam slept back to back, Frodo holding Sting to his chest for dear life and Sam a bag of mushrooms. The Hobbits were fine, and were actually quite cute when they slept all curled up like that. Aragorn frowned. Must be that Elven wine.  
  
Elven wine?  
  
Damn that Elf.  
  
Crinkling his nose, Aragorn shifted his eyes over to where the said Elf slept soundly. Eyes open in the manner of his people, Legolas lay flat on his back, hands across his chest and looking positively dead if it weren't for the slight heaving of his chest in proof his breathing. Still, the way the Moon hit him and outlined his body was magnificent, almost as if an Angel took his place in that very second. Aragorn smiled slightly. Like Elven wine, that beautiful blonde hair and silky alabaster skin was addicting, not to mention those captivating blue eyes that danced whenever he cast his gaze his way, his muscled body rippling with delight and grace whenever he was just walking or playing harmless pranks on the rest of them, his laughter filling their ears like a wind chime fluttering against the spring breeze…  
  
Damn him!  
  
Aragorn grunted, turning hastily back over, trying to push Legolas out of his head without much success. That Elf surely did a number on him, capturing his heart and keeping it in a silken, satin box adorned with the finest gems found in Middle-Earth for his own use only. Chewing his lip, he curled his fingers into a fist to avoid getting up and tackling the sleeping beauty, making a note to teach that meddling prince a lessen or two about stealing hearts in the morning.  
  
Night wore on.  
  
Crickets chirped.  
  
Owls cooed in the distance, and rodents scattered nervously about.  
  
And still Aragorn didn't sleep.  
  
And still he damned that Elf and his wine.  
  
Then something caught his eye.  
  
A lean figure rose from the filth of the ground, an eerie glow existing in a halo around the frame of the body. His face was a pale white, almost deathly, and his eyes were unblinking and gray; his cheekbones had a strange hollow look to them as if someone had taken a hammer and swung at his cheeks, puncturing them in. His eyes betrayed nothing except for a glimmer of confusion that was hidden deep in his pupils. Standing perfectly still for a single second, it moved towards Aragorn with such grace that it gave the illusion that it walked on air, stepping over him swiftly and heading in a different direction. Blinking, Strider looked up at the retreating backside. A dawning realization flashed through his mind. Legolas!  
  
Struggling out of the tangle the blanket had him in, Aragorn scrambled to his feet, noting that the Elf had covered such a long distance in such little time. Grabbing his ever-present sword, the Man ran at an even, quick pace to catch up to the wandering Elven prince, but made sure to keep his rightful distance between them. Knowing that Elves could be dangerous when startled or when panicking, Aragorn made a note to keep from making too much noise from his footsteps. Though Lord Elrond had taught him to walk delicately as an Elf would, he was still a Man, and made unnecessary noises when tramping through the Forests.  
  
The night remained dark.  
  
Strider didn't know how long he had been following Legolas, or how far away they truly were from the rest of the Fellowship, but frankly it didn't matter at the present time. While staying behind Legolas, but keeping a watchful, keen eye on him, Aragorn had spotted flecks of blood dotting his hair and clothes, appearing suddenly and without an origin. The blood stains grew larger and larger, now almost covering the golden hair he had grown to love with a deadly sign hidden somewhere in the damp mass.  
  
The halo continued to glow.  
  
Finally, the prince haulted his pace. Aragorn followed his example, yet hid behind a tree. T'was a wise thing to do, keep out of sight of a seemingly unsuspecting Elf. A quietly rippling stream ran at the tip of the Elf's shoes, but all too suddenly did it turn from clear to a glowing black. Watching from 'round the staff of the tree, Aragorn saw the Elf's pale face. He gasped inwardly at the sight of steady streaks of blood flowing down from his widow's peak. Before he could react, a deadly gaze was turned on to him, the beautiful blue eyes now flashing a dangerous red, his smile twisted into that of an Orc, upper lip pulled back in a snarl.  
  
"Legolas," Aragorn managed to choke out as the Elf raised his bow, an arrow cocked and ready for release. Legolas' grin was frozen on his face.  
  
"Estel," his voice said hauntingly, and his arrow showed no mercy. 


	3. Master Calls

Darkness.  
  
A burning heat spreading strongly through his veins… a light headedness… slight feeling of… euphoria… *  
  
Falling downwards through a spiral of an icy pain, a searing heat flashing against his skin and burning his insides like the fire of an angry Balrog, his treacherous whip springing forward to sink into his delicate flesh, the Man felt sick. Aragorn shriveled against the Forest floor, shaking and coughing up blood violently, throwing Anduril to the side. His body jerked involuntarily, his head feeling as if somebody had crashed it against a stone wall numerous times without a pause. His chest ached something awful, his heart beating against his ribs hard enough, he thought, to break them. Everything was black.  
  
Yet he could see.  
  
Legolas stared down at him like a taskmaster to its animal, cold and unfeeling. Cocking another arrow to his Elven bow, he pulled it back, ready to strike him again. The homicidal grin never left his pale lips, but instead, his eyes narrowed darkly and eyebrows furrowed. 'Kill,' his mind told him. 'Kill him now. He is putting on an act.' The prince pulled it back tighter, ready to release.  
  
Aragorn strained his neck to look up at the blinding glow that stung his eyes. Everything in his cold body ached; nothing was worth living for at this particular moment. And worse of all, Legolas, his love and his own, had fired the deathly, poisoned arrow. Gasping and curling into a cramped position, Aragorn let the effects of the deathshade take place.  
  
The Elven prince released the arrow.  
  
Strider's eyelids snapped open, mouth open to scream, body spasming from the infected arrow that had lodged itself deep into his back. A black liquid spilled across his even darker clothes, mixing with his blood and oozing into the other open wound, stinging Aragorn further into his agony. The Man drew in a sharp intake of breath, gagging and spitting out a the lump of blood in his mouth, at Legolas' feet. Legolas stared down at him, a surge of heat running through his body. His body reacting to a will that was not even his, he lifted his foot and crushed it against Aragorn's head, digging the heel of his shoe into the side of his head. Unsheathing a knife, he bent down and cut off a bloodied lock of hair, then grabbed a matted clump and raised Strider by his hair, throwing him to the base of a tree, stuffing the strands he held into a leather bag. He was about to carry out the means of death when he heard something in his head.  
  
'Leave him, Legolas. Leave him and come to me. I have work for you to do.'  
  
With an unseen power, the Elf of Mirkwood moved his feet against his will and was forced to turn the other way. The last he saw of Aragorn was his shaking body, the poison destroying him slowly but surely, the wounds affecting him in a way that would leave him remembering that night forever. In the back of his mind, he feared that that would be the last he would see of the King of Gondor.  
  
~***~  
  
*Quote taken from the musical 'Jekyll and Hyde'. Dark, twisted, and neat play, recommend it to all you dark people. *g* 


	4. Meticulous Planning

"Aragorn?"  
  
A voice… distant, yet soft caught Aragorn's ringing ears.   
  
"Strider!"  
  
Strider? Frodo! Aragorn struggled to gain the consciousness he needed to reassure his comrades, but he couldn't muster any strength to even move his fingers. His mind was in a dazzling whirl over what had happened. Perhaps he was actually dead - no Man could ever live through a single arrow with deathshade milked into it, let alone two. The voices he heard were all a dream.  
  
~***~  
  
Rising from his obsidian throne, the lanky man stepped down delicately to his new standing servant. Circling the glowing form, he kept his head up high to show superior, studying his puppet's face. Legolas remained silent. He knew not why he was there, what he had actually done to his comrade - his lover, his life - but said nothing in fear of a threat of injury to the rest of the Fellowship. His pervious actions were questioned only in his mind.  
  
Sarumon stood before the prince, his cold brown eyes latching with his own blue; the red had died down. Legolas glared back at the wizard, hating him with everything he had. He had a sinking feeling he was the puppeteer behind his strange actions, and his heart shattered into a million stinging pieces. The white robed man didn't falter.  
  
"I suppose you wonder why I have brought you here, Prince of Mirkwood."  
  
"May your corpse burn and rot in the fiery Hell that has been reserved for you," Legolas spat, cheeks flushing with anger.  
  
Sarumon smiled gently yet wickedly, which made the Elf shudder inwardly. "No need to arrange my death in that sort," he replied silkily. "Besides, won't you please carry out the deeds I have for you?"  
  
Legolas bared his teeth. "I would do nothing for you, you beaten up follower of Sauron," he hissed. "You have already done enough damage, killing Aragorn. What more do you want from me? Do you enjoy the pain that you see in my eyes?"  
Taking up his staff in his hand, Sarumon inspected the milky ball at the top pensively. "Not entirely. Let me assure you, I will." He glared at the Elven man evenly. "Legolas, you are no longer part of the Fellowship."  
  
"If you had done anything to hurt them…"  
  
"Good heavens, not yet!" The Wizard of White stroked Legolas' jaw with a lean finger. "I will not be doing anything. It is you who'll do it for me."  
  
"I shall do nothing of that sort."  
  
"Do not be so sure of yourself," Sarumon warned, tracing a line with his sharp fingernail from the Elf's fair skin around his cheekbone to the edge of his lips, leaving a fine red line in its wake. Legolas gasped, closing his eyes tightly against the seething pain radiating from the small cut and the finger that left it. The wizard smiled. "I'm afraid you are mine now. You responded to my call perfectly, Legolas. I can sense you will be a great help to me."  
  
Legolas felt an overwhelming gush of power strike his body inside and out, making him retreat a step back. His air path had been cut off, his heart pounded against his chest so severely he feared it might break out of his ribs. A dark red colour filled his eyes; he could see only through the red, the shapes of everything darkened and threatening. His knees gave way from under him, and as soon as he hit the floor, a cold lightening shot up through his thighs to his head, his mouth open to scream, yet nothing came out. Sarumon watched with a gleam of amusement in his eyes.  
  
"Do not fear me, Legolas. Soon you will be the greatest minion I have ever had. You will be the one to retrieve the Ring for me. Understand?"  
  
The stunning blue eyes, now fogged with darkness, rolled back into his head. The lean hands were balled into mighty fists, the pressure he sent through his fingernails digging into his palms created half-moon pools of blood which seeped out to overflow the sides. His body was thrown forward, then forced back up to a sitting position on his ankles, his eyes coming back to their normal position in their sockets. This time, fiery red eyes glared out at the world, at Sarumon, at his throne. He could feel his hair being pulled back by an unseen power, the blonde slowly becoming a black beyond the darkest night. In a voice Legolas did not recognize, he murmured, "Yes, master." 


	5. Confusion

"I don't think he's going to make it."  
  
Boromir looked up from roasting a slab of salmon on the fire. Gimli sat at Aragorn's side, patting his brow gently with a damp cloth. Close by was Frodo, who hovered over the limp body like a child who lost his mother, who witnessed the murder. The steward bit his lip momentarily, hands shaking as he checked to see if the fish had cooked to an appropriate heat.  
  
"I wouldn't worry. He wouldn't die now."  
  
"Oh, you sound very sympathetic," Merry jested sarcastically. "You could probably care less!"  
  
Pippin eyed the Man carefully. "Are you makin' that for yourself? Cause if you are…"  
  
"It's for Strider, Pippin," Frodo reminded carefully. His cousin gave him a hurt look.  
  
"But he's rejected everything we've shoved down his throat," he protested, wincing at the memory. "We're probably torturing him!"  
  
The young Hobbit glanced down at his fallen friend, pushing back wisps of hair from his sweating forehead. Gimli sighed heavily, eyeing the future king with a wary eye. "The Hobbit has a point. The deathshade is a terrible, bile thing, it is, and we barely have any healing experience."  
  
Frodo ran his fingers through Strider's sweaty hair, chewing on his bottom lip. A quivering feeling rose at the pit of his stomach, a good feeling in a sort, as if something will be right in a matter of time. He smiled faintly at it, staring down at Aragorn's pained features. Maybe he will be fine.  
  
Boromir echoed Gimli's sigh, picking off some meat from the fish. Glaring at the Hobbit, who was looking up at him with the sweetest face possible, he handed Frodo the pinkish meat. "Try giving it to him one more time," he murmured. "Third time the charm?"  
  
"Shove it down my throat and I'll have your head," a charred voice spoke out. Boromir snapped up his head, eyes growing wide at the sound of the new voice. Frodo broke into a wide grin, throwing the fish he had in his fingers up into the air.  
  
"Strider!"  
  
"The fish," Pippin whimpered sorrowfully, wistfully looking over where the meat had been discarded. Merry rolled his eyes and shoved the fish from the spit into his cousin's hands before leaning over to see what had happened. The Hobbit, in turn, bit graciously into the fish, gulping it down in no time at all. The little Ringbearer couldn't suppress his joy and ended up nearly hugging the poor Ranger to death, that of which he had just returned from. It took Samwise and Merry to pry him off, giving the Man room to breathe. Aragorn sucked in a deep breath, mind fogged with confusion and pain.  
  
"I take it I'm not dead, then," he muttered, trying to lie back on his elbows, but failed miserably. Boromir was obliged to have the king rest against his lap, butterflies fluttering anxiously in his abdomen, thankful for his wake.  
  
"You're damn lucky, Aragorn," Gimli scolded lightly, filling a cup with a steaming liquid. "Two arrows, TWO with deathshade! How the hell did that happen?"  
  
Aragorn groaned softly, a sour taste rising at the back of his throat, along with an unpleasant lump. Choking it down, he gratefully accepted the tea the Hobbits had prepared. Warming his shivering hands on the cup, he managed to hiss, "How long has it been…?"  
  
"Three days, one night," Merry replied quickly. "Boromir and Frodo went out lookin' for you after we woke up and didn't find you here."  
  
"Legolas is gone as well," Sam added shamefully. "We couldn't find any trace of him anywhere."  
  
Slowly the memories of that fatal night came flowing back to his brain. The luminous glow surrounding the young prince, the shocking gleam in his eyes, the cruel grin… none of it seemed to make sense. Possessed, possibly, but… it didn't seem to fit! Where would it have come from? Why did it happen? Who could have been the one behind the grueling behaviour? Feeling a treacherous headache barging through, Aragorn furrowed his brow against the rising pain. His chest and back were acting as if they had been torn apart by vicious blades, but upon touching his waist it proved to be in tact. Groaning he tried to resurrect every detail of what he saw, but his head refused to answer to him. He soon gave up.  
  
Frodo cautiously dabbed his friend's forehead, almost as if he feared he might break and crumble under his hand. "We found you cold and pale," he said almost in a whisper. "We thought you had died, but your wrists proved us wrong."  
  
"How you survived that is beyond our knowledge, Aragorn," Gimli broke in. "You must be awfully lucky."  
  
Strider closed his eyes tightly, the weight of Arwen's immortality necklace making itself known against his collarbone. He didn't speak about it, knowing his comrades had forgotten about that item. He didn't wish to talk, though - his body was weary and heavy to him, and all he wanted was rest.  
  
As if he knew of Aragorn's thoughts, Frodo took the cup carefully from his hands. "Let him rest awhile longer. We cannot rush him already, and I'm sure it'll only take a day for him to heal well enough to move on."  
  
Aragorn didn't hear the rest of the conversation. Instead, he had slipped into the welcoming darkness that veiled over his eyes, shifting into the deep slumber that called his name.  
  
  
*NOTE: This chapter may change. Be on a lookout. ^^ 


	6. Unlikely Attacker

Gimli laughed aloud, slapping his armoured knee in delight. At his feet lay two Hobbits, Merry and Pippin, nonetheless, with both Frodo and Sam sitting daintily on their backs. Nearby was Boromir, who pretended not to care about the silly romping about the Hobbits were up to, but ever so often he glanced up with a little smile across his lips. Aragorn was busy arranging his things into his pack and cleaning Adruil carefully. Frodo triumphantly stuck his nose in the air, arms folded high on his chest. Sam mimicked his actions, nodding his head in an important manner, considering their job done.   
  
Pippin protested pitifully, crying that he had nothing to do with it, it was Merry's idea, he was just dragged along. Merry, in turn, spat at his cousin that it was really HIS idea, that he warned him that they would get caught, but no, HE said they wouldn't. Strider rolled his eyes at the sound of the two related Hobbits bickering endlessly, with the Ringbearer and loyal servant suppressing fits of turbulent giggles.   
  
"Please, Frodo, it was not my doing! Pip used guile to lead me on! I had…"  
  
"Mer-ry! You abetted me to play along!"  
  
"Frodo, Sam, don't believe him…"  
  
Gimli heartily gave a sigh. "Are you Hobbits just here to divert us from the tedious journey placed into our hands?"  
  
Aragorn fondly placed his sword into the scabbard, standing with a grunt. "No, they're just here to make us appear big and mighty."  
  
Pippin grinned and raised his hand up in acknowledgement. "Exactly!"  
  
Boromir flashed his own sword in the air, catching the rays of the burning sun. "And to amuse us when things are beginning to be humdrum."  
  
Standing and brandishing his axe, Gimli retorted, "And you Men think you are all elite because of your race!"  
  
Aragorn blocked out the remains of the banter, turning his head away from the insane chaos. It had been a week and four days since Legolas had used atrocious and bizarre behaviour, frightening the Gondor King to the bone. The very thought of the flagrant actions raised a sharp pang of soreness in his side and back; the wounds had healed but not without leaving Strider with two ugly scars. Sweat began to bead his brow, flashbacks of the reactions to the deathshade arising in his brain, the scathing pain and the weakness of his body.  
  
Shaking his head, Aragorn glanced in a different direction. Instead, he was reminded of when he had tried to travel the first day he felt well once more. Not far into the walk had he collapsed, unable to move his legs. He swore loudly in Elvish; lightening strikes of a bolting shock were running through his thighs and calves the remainder of the day, preventing him to do anything with his lower half. Aragorn had laid paralyzed on the Forest floor, curled into a fetal position, shivering on sporadic moments.  
  
Dear Frodo, bless the little Hobbit, had done his best to take care of his caretaker, no matter what. He knew that when it came to his healing abilities he couldn't even cure a slug, but his knack for making tea had come in handy.   
  
Brushing loose locks of hair out of his face, Aragorn turned back to his companions. What his eyes told him would keep him laughing for at least a day.  
  
Boromir had been faithfully tied to a tree, along with a cursing Dwarf; around the tree's shaft four Hobbits were prancing about with an axe and several swords, each taunting their captives mercilessly. On Merry's head was the Dwarven warrior's helmet, and the lad was doing his best impressions of the slightly taller comrade, complete with a makeshift beard made of leaves and mud. Sam bared Boromir's shield of Gondor, flashing it about as he danced in circles, holding Pippin's arm and swinging him around for the fun of it. On Pippin's part, he wasn't looking too happy about it, but he had taken off Gimli's shoes and kicked one to the side and the other was barely surviving the abuse of being filled with pipe weed and squishy mushrooms, then was used as a weapon against Merry when he dared to near. Frodo, on the other hand, was chasing the other three around, cackling as best as he could, claiming to be a Ringwraith on a Hobbit hunt.  
  
Boromir pulled an utterly pathetic face at Aragorn, his eyes pleading for mercy and liberty from the tree that held him prisoner. Strider came lurching over, swooping up the nearest Hobbit - Pippin - into his arms and holding him high above his head. Poor Peregrin Took was not expecting such an abrupt action and lost his balance in Aragorn's grip, falling around the Man's shoulders and holding on for dear life.  
  
Merry immediately began to try to save his cousin, but instead was caught in Aragorn's hands, lifted up to be held under one arm. Frodo, not thinking of Merry's fate, attempted a one Hobbit rescue mission, failing miserably - he too was soon under Strider's other arm.  
  
Sam was left alone.  
  
Silence settled over the congregation of races as both thought in deep contemplation of their final move. Sam decided it was best to attack with the shoe Pippin had dropped, but found that Aragorn had other ideas.  
  
Shifting the Took around his shoulders, he bent down a little bit so the Hobbit was hanging from around his neck. When Sam neared he hooted, "Pippin-kick!"  
  
Giggling like a maniac, Pippin swung out his feet, nearly hitting the poor gardener's jaw. When Sam tried to retreat, Aragorn turned Merry around and yelled, "Merry-bomb!" Boromir and Gimli watched with wide-eyed fascination when Merry was hurled through the air to land on Sam's back, taking the Hobbit to the ground. Freeing Frodo, Aragorn gave his final order. "Frodo - tickle attack!"  
  
Sam's eyes turned into saucers. "No, not that… oh, no…"  
  
Frodo giggled fitfully, running over to pounce upon his loyal friend, tickling him feverishly, showing no intention of ending the torture any time soon. Both Man and Dwarf doubled over in laughter after their bonds were cut by a proud Aragorn, nearly rolling in the leaves from the pitiful sight.   
  
Pippin watched quietly but with an amused smile on his face from Aragorn's shoulders, obliged to stay up where he was safe. Strider patted the young halfling's knee comfortingly, watching the rest of the game unfold.  
  
The happy air of the Fellowship would not last for long.   
  
A deathly arrow came whizzing through the air with a sharp scream, striking a tree just inches above Boromir's head. Silence settled quickly over the collection of races, the previous happiness forgotten. Another arrow charged through the trees, almost striking Pippin's arm, but missed its target. Lifting the halfling from his body, Strider narrowed his eyes in the direction both came from.  
  
A soft 'shink' brought Aragorn's attention to Frodo. Sting was glowing; only this time an eerie royal blue.  
  
Before anyone had time to say anything, a shadowed figure caught all eyes. Dirt caked clothes hung from his body as though they had gone to him to his grave, his skin a dark red spotted with patches of brown and black; his lethal teeth bared, sharp as Isildur's blade; his eyes, a shocking red glared out from their sockets, sunken into his head; his strangely thin nose betrayed the fact that he was still an Elf, not entirely the ugly Orc the rest had been made into. Dropping Andruil, Aragorn took several staggering steps forward, his hand reaching out to the fierce warrior.  
  
"Legolas!" 


	7. Newfound Wounds

Legolas' rueful grin was pulled back into a fierce snarl, his split tongue snaking out from his lips to flick momentarily at the ones before him. Orcs gathered at his sides, awaiting a command or possibly a cue for an attack, their weapons flashing at the Fellowship in a grueling manner. Pulling another arrow from his quiver, he tantalizingly slowed his movements as he cocked the arrow and retracted the strong string on the bow till his hand rested against his mutilated cheek. His eyes burned an aching yellow, almost piercing Aragorn's eyes to the very back of his head. Almost ready to release, his actions were haulted by a darkened glow of a voice in his head.  
  
"Remember, Legolas - one of them is very valuable to me. Aragorn might prove to be an excellent swordsman if you return him to me. Torture him, but do not kill him. Gather the Halflings, and do not harm any of them. Do you understand me?"  
  
A husky roar rising in his throat as a response, Legolas let his arrow fly directly into Aragorn's shoulder, his throaty, matted voice carrying over the land in a deadening roar, the Orcs around him screaming as they fled down the steep hillsides.   
  
Aragorn, his eyes fogged with a rejection and pain equalling that to a grieving, dying Elf, barely noticed the swarm of beats heading towards them until he heard Frodo's desperate cries of help. Shrugging away his thoughts, swung his arm around, killing several Orcs in the process, and at least one lost its head. Boromir slashed madly at the invading army, grinding his sword into the powerful bodies and immediately slicing its comrades with the blood of another. He fought with everything to protect the Hobbits, but found that he had lost the smallest one - Pippin - to a sneaking Uruk-Hai that deftly grabbed him when Boromir couldn't look around.   
  
Gimli, upon seeing a screaming and hysterical Pippin, made sure a certain Uruk-Hai got what he deserved, and heads sure did roll. Gathering Pippin up in his arms, he rid Orcs of their appendages and weapons, dutifully giving them a hard time when one dared to snatch the Hobbit away from his grasp. A taller Orc swooped down to take Merry hostage, earning a swift kick in the groin for his troubles. While he bent over in the overwhelming pain between his legs, he earned a great deal more from the frustrated Hobbit, who relentlessly kicked him until he felt it was free to run, leaving the Orc with his dignity lost.  
  
Unfortunately, Merry hadn't been so swift on his movements, and as soon as he was several yards away from his previous attacker, he was taken hold by a gruff Uruk-Hai, who was also carrying Sam under his other arm. Sam, beating his fists into the stone-like armour, cursed wildly at the assaulter, trying to free himself of his captive state. Merry had no luck in aiding in Sam's attempts, for he had lost his sword along with an Elven dagger presented to him secretly by Legolas in Moria. He was left helpless.  
  
Boromir refused to give Frodo up without a fight, and a blood one at that. Angrily crashing the sharp side of the sword against their heads, he neatly sliced them open and quickly gained their lethal weapons in his other hand, throwing them at oncoming Orcs. The injured ones howled in pain, their piercing cries shattering the world around them in a single breath. Finding a Uruk-Hai axe nearby, he delivered a deadly blow to an insisting Orc who had even let he thought of capturing Frodo cross his mind. Yelling for Aragorn, he hastily picked up the Halfling, carrying him securely in front of him, calling Aragorn's name all the while. Ducking under low branches, his hair whipped across his face as he looked around and found that his king was no where in sight.  
  
~***~  
  
Raising the Man up by his vest to look up at him with a scowl, Legolas threw him unceremoniously into a tree, the aural cracking of bones disturbingly pleasing to his ears. Flicking his knotted black hair over his shoulder, he walked heavily over to where Aragorn lay boneless and whimpering, an arrow in his tightly clenched fist. In an all too quick movement, he found himself sprawled against he leaves, staring up into the hardened face of Aragorn. Spitting a black substance at his feet, Legolas was ready to flip the Man over his body, sending him crashing against the fallen shaft of tree behind him when he tried to pounce upon him.  
  
Grunting, Aragorn shook his head violently to wash away the cobwebs of an aching torture arising in his body, raising Andruil up in time to catch some of Legolas' skin on the sharp edges, an audible hiss of displeasure reaching his ears. Quickly rising from the remains of the tree, he turned just in time to see the Elf he knew and loved spring at him, driving him to the ground, his talons sinking deep into the flesh of his shoulders, into the hard collarbone across the pit of his neck. A massive calloused hand traveled the short distance to his neck, squeezing his air passage shut for a short time before Aragorn kicked him rudely in the gut, sending him backwards but without taking some skin from his neck with him.  
  
Roaring in anger, Legolas regained his balance, swiftly settling into the position of a Cat ready to attack, then pushed off with the might of his legs at Aragorn once again, furious and eager to complete his task. But this time Aragorn was ready, Andruil meeting Legolas' side and leaving a neat wound in its wake. Growling and giving his new cut a glance, the once peaceful Elf firmly decided he would end this game just as quickly as it began. Drawing an arrow from the Orc-crafted quiver, he placed it on his hand and drew back, ready to let it go.  
  
But Aragorn would not have this. Panting, he screamed, "What has come over you, Legolas? What has possessed you to carry on a mission so meaningless and foolhardy as this one you are taking to now? Why have you turned against us?"  
  
Legolas flinched. He had never hesitated to release the arrow on his own will until now. His hand shook mildly, then retracted the string harder. Aragorn pressed on. "Why have you turned against *me*? You have become a creature without a heart, and I have known you to have a large one. An Orc is what you are now - a hideous being that has graced Middle-Earth with the shame of Sauron. What will you become of this? I'm sure your master will kill you after your time has been served."  
  
New beads of sweat adorned Legolas' brow. Why *was* he being so weak? Release the damned arrow, he told himself. Yet he could not. Something inside him, bellowing and kicking, held him back.  
  
Sarumon's voice boomed ferociously in his head. "What are you waiting for? If you will not let follow through with my instructions to either let him live or kill him, do away with him already! KILL him, Legolas! There is still one Halfling that must return with you that is too resistant to come with us."  
  
Closing his eyes, he furrowed his eyebrows, squeezing his eyes shut. Opening them, he found that his vision was blurred by an unexpected tingling in his eyes; he weakly let his arrow fly through the air, the head sinking into Aragorn's leg just barely above his knee. Hastily taking his leave, he fled from the area and easily found the Hobbit Sarumon was referring to.   
  
Frodo kicked wildly against the arms of other Orcs, sending Sting through their muscles and cutting through their bones. Roaring to get their attention, Legolas pushed the other creatures carelessly aside to loom over the shrinking Hobbit, snatching up Sting and tossing it away from his grasp. Then, without waiting for a counter attack, picked the Halfling up by the collar of his shirt and held his small wrists in his mighty hand, jerking his head to the others. "We leave now! Do not fall behind!"  
  
Hearing the frantic cries of the Hobbits die off as they fled farther away from the battlefield, Aragorn let the salty tears cascade down his dirt-caked face to linger at his jaw. If there was one thing he could never understand, it had to be the Elves.   
  
Where had his love gone amiss? 


	8. It's A Dangerous Game

"Let me go! Unhand me right now!"  
  
Frodo banged wildly against the heaving chest of a slightly wounded Orc who had been carrying the panicking Halfling for a day and a half, nearly surviving the constant mad rambling of the one he held. Shooting an almost pleading look to his leader, he was grateful to halt his tracks and set the Hobbit down. Frodo immediately darted to a tree but was caught by bulky Uruk-Hai.  
  
"Just hold him still. We will rest for now - I am sure the Halflings are weary," Legolas barked at the half goblin, half Orc in a loud, hate filled voice. The Uruk-Hai did as he was told, but suffered the consequences of an angry little Ringbearer insistent on saving his friends. He growled forcefully at it, scaring Frodo momentarily, silencing him until he took a mighty swing, drawing his hand back sharply when he felt the hardness of the monster's cheekbone beneath the leathery skin.  
  
Pippin recoiled from an Orc's unwelcome and disturbing touch, shaking with fear; tears of peril rolled freely down his cheeks, his voice caught in his throat so he could not scream. Merry shouted obscenities at the assaulting creature, demanding he let go of his cousin before he would do something terrible to punish him; his words were drowned out in the irrepressible cruel laughter around him. Sam stayed silent and unmoving, his eyes wandering around like a scared animal, several times watching Frodo try to punch out an Uruk-Hai without much success. Looking away from the scene Pippin was attracting, his gaze landed on the one known as Legolas.  
  
Legolas had his back to the tribe of hideous creatures, his deadly bow in his hand in a death grip as if he feared it would shatter if he dared let go. He stood in the direction of Isengard, most likely receiving a mental message from the one he has his allegiance sworn to, Sam thought. But his mind wanderings were incorrect indeed.   
  
Earth shaking screams were ringing relentlessly in his head, attempts to block it all out ineffectual to his memories of the previous days. Half of him told him that he was being a sap, a weak and terrible excuse for an Orc; the other said he was an uttermost idiot to leave his comrades - his lover, his life - in that sort of state of which he created. His mind swam in an endless pool of confusion, hate, and sorrow, a mire more murky and swampy than those in Middle-Earth.   
  
The weight of the knowledge he had committed a serious crime against his oath of the Fellowship, following heedlessly in Sarumon's plans. He proved to be the cull of the Fellowship - irrational, inhumane, and a failure.  
  
A piercing cry brought his instant attention to the Hobbit being heavily assaulted by the other Orcs and Uruk-Hai around him. When he noticed that Pippin was nearly crying his eyes out, he stalked over to ascertain the cause of his outburst. Shoving the others aside gruffly, he roared in disdain at the sight of the nearly raped Hobbit being mauled in the most ungracious manner. Desisting the actions in a single throwing of a body against several others, he further advanced to chastise them in the most terrible way imaginable. Killing many of the guilty party in his gruesome beating, he fought off the other ones who let the thought cross their minds of approaching. Pippin quickly gathered what was left of his clothes and pushed back against a tree, trying to disappear or at least be unnoticed. He curled his body into a small ball, completely found and bare, his stomach turning wild somersaults as an effect.  
  
Once through with his reprimanding of the moment, Legolas turned back to the victim, squatting down on his heels a yard or two away to give him his space. Pippin refused to meet his stare, but only cried harder, calling for Merry desperately as if the world depended on him. Merry was, in turn, shouting for Pippin, cursing wildly at Legolas and the Orc holding him hostage. With a wave of his meaty hand, the Orc released the angered Hobbit who nearly flew to his cousin's side, consoling the frightened little one. Glaring daggers at Legolas, he ran his fingers through the unruly hair a few times, holding the little body to his and rocking him back and forth gently, whispering comforting words into his ear.   
  
Legolas stood, securing his bow into over his quiver. Baring his teeth at the others, he said, "Stay away from the two Halflings, but keep your watch. I do NOT want to see ANY of you within twenty feet of them, do you hear me? If I do, you will be severely punished."   
  
He started to pivot around when an Orc murmured, "Oh, we're scared."  
  
Slowing his movements dramatically, Legolas faced the Orc with an absolutely sickening grin across his face. "Are you really?"  
  
Without giving him a second's chance to respond, he swiftly rid him the burden of his head, holding it up by the hair and cutting it neatly in half before discarding it on the ground. Uruk-Hai and Orcs alike fell silent.  
  
"Do any of you wish to challenge me and end up like the fool who dared to, or will you heed in my commands?"  
  
Dead silence.  
  
Watching with wide-eyed awe, Sam found that he couldn't stop his mouth from moving involuntarily as Legolas brushed by him in haste. "Though you fight against us in combat, you still take caution in our safety."  
  
Stopping in his tracks, Legolas bowed his head and looked over his shoulder at the Halfling. "I do it because my master has given me direct orders to keep all of you in tact." Then looking back at he slender trees, he added quietly, "And I would die of grief to see you lost." 


	9. Unexpected Turns

Turning on his heel at the gust of wind blowing through the spacious room, Sarumon quickly covered one of the last Seeing Stones with the darkened cloth, distaste in his eyes for being interrupted. Seeing it was in loyal minion, his lips broke out into a thin grin, his posture straightening and eyes boring mischief. "So you have returned. I expect to find the Halflings together as well…?"  
  
Legolas' eye twitched involuntarily, biting back a snarl. "Of course, but there was a little…" He paused, searching for words to describe the scene that had taken place in the woods. Sarumon stepped closer, the single tap of his shoe against the smooth obsidian floor almost deafening to his ears. He was forced to look into the emotionless dark orbs of Sarumon's eyes, his forehead crinkling in reaction to the glare. "Many of the army handled one of the Halflings in an offensive manner. The Halfling is not coping well with that experience, and…"  
  
"I specifically said to leave them untouched, unharmed, and perfectly fine until they arrived here!" The Wizard bellowed, his staff connecting brutally with the side of Legolas' head. The Elf crashed against he floor, his body disturbing a few broken shards of stone, allowing them to sink into his flesh like a white-hot iron piercing through delicate fabric. Wincing, Legolas averted his stare up to his master; he was rewarded with his air passage cut off. Choking and wheezing, the Elf grabbed at his throat, finding his chest was becoming very tight around his ribs, his heart burning with an ardent fire. It then disappeared.  
  
Sarumon watched the Elf stand shakily, slowly compose himself and turn to face the powerful Istari. Legolas bared his teeth unwillingly in hate before his mind was taken over once again by the Wizard's probing tone. "Where are the Halflings?"  
  
"They await your call at the bottom of the stairs," Legolas replied flatly. Sarumon raised a pale finger to a lingering Orc at the large doorframes.  
  
"Fetch the little ones," he called to the creature, a smirk pulling at the side of his mouth, "and be careful with them, if you can. I want them all bound together with rope by the hands, and not too tight. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, Master," the beast spat as he disappeared from sight. The white- robed man ticked his head at Legolas. The Elf flexed his fists in a seemingly casual manner, but his body wanted to kill. Wanted to kill the man standing before him, wanted to kill Boromir, kill Gimli, kill Aragorn, kill the Hobbits… his mind raced in painful circles, and with every breath he sucked into his lungs, he felt the stabbing thorns jabbing at his sides in reminder of the hate pouring from his eyes, the hate in his heart. Snarling unconsciously, Legolas was grateful when his attention was adverted to the loud slapping of bare feet against cold stone echoing through the massive tower, growing louder as the Halflings neared.  
  
Sam led the line with a grim expression masking his face. He didn't bother to glance up when he saw the cascading white robes of the Istari in a reflection of the sparkling floors; it was obvious who it was and who was there with him. He felt a hand push into his back abruptly; Merry was brawling with the Orc again. The Brandybuck had a mean temper, and a flair for announcing it quite clearly to those around him that might be the cause of his furious manner. Pippin followed silently behind his cousin, visibly shaken and glancing constantly back at Frodo, hoping to see a vivacious gleam in his eyes for comfort, yet he found none. The Ringbearer was quiet, his large blue eyes narrowed at sight of Legolas' form standing amongst the shadows.  
  
Sarumon eyed the little ones carefully, twisting his hand around the shaft of his magickal staff, lips curling into a pleasant smile. "The irrational little Halfling with such great stamina – what is your name?"  
  
"I would never tell you my name for anything, you soiled, shriveled newt," Merry snapped. "You don't scare me one bit, you don't – and don't you even think of getting your slimy hands on the Ring, because if you do, I vow you will be eating dirt and much more."  
  
The Wizard's eyes twinkled with fascination. "Such boldness, my little one. Yet, I have asked you a question that I want an answer to. I am most certain you will not enjoy watching one of your friends ending up like Legolas, would you? Or, even more, yourself. I am sure your pretty little mind would be displeased with the sight of Legolas murdering the one in front of you in the most undignified manner."  
  
Gulping down a lump of spit, the Hobbit choked out, "Meriadoc Brandybuck."  
  
"Good." His gaze locking onto Frodo, he cooed, "And your name?"  
  
"F… Frodo Baggins," he replied under his breath, glancing the other way when Pippin looked over his shoulder at him in horror. Sarumon nodded briefly.  
  
"I understand you hold the One Ring."  
  
"And you ain't getting to it no matter what!" Merry stepped forward as threateningly as he could. Sam grimaced; he felt a foreboding feeling sweeping through is heart at his friend's actions. The spunky little Hobbit was undaunted. "You're gonna hafta get by me first, because there's no way I, Merry Brandybuck, am gonna let you lay a finger on Frodo. He's…"  
  
Merry never finished.  
  
Pippin shrieked at the lurid sight his eyes were forced to behold. His young cousin was gripped with an unseen power, thrown from his ropes with a vicious tug and hurled into the thick obsidian walls of the room with a hollow crack. His body sank down to the floor limply, blood trickling down from the side of his mouth, his eyes open, their glass-like gaze directed on Pippin and Pippin alone. His body slumped, his head at an odd angle – his neck was obviously broken, and so they thought Meriadoc Brandybuck was no more.  
  
Howling in agony, Pippin collapsed onto the slick floor, reaching out to his dead cousin with his outstretched hand, crying heavily and calling the name he knew so well in hopes the Hobbit will return to his embrace. When he didn't receive a response, he venomously shouted obscenities at Sarumon, at Legolas, unknowingly encroaching towards his own death. Legolas stepped swiftly out from his place in the shadows and took the Hobbit into his arms, keeping a tight hold on the struggling and hysterical Halfling, clapping his hand over his mouth in way that Pippin could not bite him, but still be able to breathe comfortably through is nose. Frodo and Sam watched with sorrow.  
  
Sarumon glowered at the resistant Halfling, fixing his attention on the two remaining Hobbits. Sam refused to meet his eyes, but Frodo gathered up enough courage to at least look up at his staff. The Istari sighed heavily. "You have seen what will happen if you refuse my intentions, but what you have not witnessed is the worst. I am almost positive you will comply with my plans properly…"  
  
His voice droned on but Sam was focused on Legolas and Pippin. The Elf pushed the little one back into the wall to render him unconscious, but not before Pippin uttered his lost cousin's name; he then tied his hands together, his ankles cast in iron, and his body deposited in a separate room arranged in the likes of a dungeon.  
  
Sam found himself being hauled over to the room Pippin was just placed in, his eyes locking with the limp body of his comrade as he shuffled towards the door. Merry lay in a dark pool of his own blood, his clothes soaked with the red liquid and his features paled from the loss of blood. His stomach twisting, his head turned the other way to meet Legolas' eyes; he snarled at him. "Before I had thought you were fighting back against Sarumon's will, but I can see that you are nothing but a toy, a traitor, and a failure to the Fellowship. I hope you die tragically, slowly, and full of agony – and by Sarumon's hand," he added. Then, after an afterthought as he was pushed into the clammy cell, "You deserve it." 


	10. False Truths and Pledges

Tiredly curling into a slimy corner, Sam tugged at the chains enclosing his feet with a weak pull, his back finally slumping against the cold stones of the wall behind him in defeat. Frodo sat not too far off from him, head bowed and hands lying limply in the soles of his feet. The Ringbearer has his eyes focused on the ground, refusing to blink or shift his gaze elsewhere. Pippin was in the worst shape. The Took lay in a crumpled heap in the center of the cell, his breathing heavy and coming in harsh gasps that made Sam flinch. He figured that the young Took had been under enough stress in three days then needed, and Pippin was indeed the first candidate to crack before the rest.  
  
Sam sighed softly. "Well, at least we have not given in," he murmured, mostly directed to himself. He had thought that his comment was mental – he was surprised when Frodo replied in a bitter tone.  
  
"Yes, we have not given in, but in a matter of time each and every one of us will fall victim to this… this treacherous matter," the Baggins snapped, glaring at his gardener from under his eyebrows. "We have lost Merry – we shan't worry!" he growled sarcastically. "No worries whatsoever, we are still alive and Pippin is just on the border of frantic and even suicide. Legolas has faithfully rebuked against us and is working for that slime ball of a Wizard, and we do not even know how the others are doing. Oh, and have I forgotten? Pippin was molested, nearly raped, and now Merry has been murdered right before his eyes. No worries indeed," he finished with a sour note, angrily yanking on his bindings. Sam gawked.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, I did not intend for that to be an oral thought," he tried to explain. "Even so, I would never want it to appear offensive."  
  
"Then mind your wording," Frodo mumbled. Sliding down to slouch against the floor and wall, he added, "And feel free to slap me whenever you feel like it."  
  
Shaking his head, the Gamgee refused his offer. "I am afraid I must resist that," he said. "I would never forgive myself for taking part in that action."  
  
"Then may I?"  
  
Frodo snapped his head up in Pippin's direction when a barely audible voice muffled by clothes drifted by his ears. Sam sat up straight, his eyes locked on the stirring body. "Pippin, are you okay?"  
  
"My head," Pippin groaned, dragging himself into a sitting position. Cradling his forehead in his hands, he asked, "What happened?"  
  
Casting a careful glance in Sam's direction, Frodo answered, "Too much."  
  
"Indeed." Groggily lifting his head to look at Frodo, he whispered, "Where's Merry?"  
  
Silence encased them. Sam fidgeted, suddenly finding his toes to be very interesting. He didn't know if Frodo was going to give him the blunt truth, or if he was left with the privilege. But Frodo didn't appear to be in the mood for talking about Merry's unfortunate passing, so he decided it was he who was to remind the little Hobbit. Picking at the thick hair coating his the top of his feet, he muttered, "Dead."  
  
Both expected the younger one to burst into tears again, but Pippin merely nodded. "So it wasn't just my imagination…" Blinking back the stinging he felt in his eyes, he rubbed the side of his head wearily. "And I had the weirdest dream…" He laughed hollowly. "Nevermind."  
  
Frodo sighed again. "There must be a way out of this hellhole," he remarked, looking around. "There must be."  
  
"Nay, a Wizard can be crafty in the makings of his dungeons," Sam reminded him. "I have heard that they take careful planning into their murky realms, and there is usually not a single entrance out than the way one has gotten in."  
  
"Then we will sit here until we rot."  
  
"Basically."  
  
~***~  
  
Legolas stormed furiously through Isengard's premises, shoving aside anything that came into his way. His mind was focused primarily on what just has happened in that fateful hour, and the rage was building up rapidly inside his body. He needed to kill, he needed to hate. He felt just that. What he needed now was something to hunt… something to hunt… something to…  
  
The Fellowship.  
  
Smirking devilishly to himself, he took off in a mad dash for the last place he had attacked his… friends… knowing that Sarumon would most likely like for him to do away with those pests. He could cover the distance in no time, now that he was traveling in solitude. His swift, agile legs brought him to the outskirts of the darkened land in a small amount of time, his hair kept back in a high, tight ponytail; he could feel the slapping of his blood-moistened hair against his neck, his fists flexing unconsciously as he ran faster when the scent of Aragorn, whose blood had not left his hands, grew stronger with a slowing pace.  
  
He felt an unwanted, unexpected reminder beating in his chest. Aragorn was his lover, was he not? Legolas thought this over to himself, his quickness leisurely slowing down. No, Aragorn was nothing more but a nuisance – he was just a liability. He tried to protect the Halflings from his army, and even slain many of them. Aragorn was absolutely nothing of value. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Kapoot.  
  
Which is why he had to die.  
  
Nodding in confidence to himself, Legolas gained the speed he had lost once again. Aragorn had to die. And so did the two others in his little party. All of them would perish under his hand. All of them.  
  
"Going somewhere, Legolas?"  
  
The Elf ceased his steps immediately, the voice of his master unnaturally loud at his right. Turning to see the Istari standing amongst the thicket of trees, he glared at the unwanted intrusion. "Yes."  
  
"And where might that be?"  
  
"The Fellowship. I have intentions for them."  
  
"Ah, yes, but I do as well."  
  
Legolas growled. "I want to see them die. They *will* die under *my* control and will."  
  
Sarumon ran his hand slowly down from the crown of his staff to a comfortable position in the middle. "In a matter of time, they will. Why must you go off and kill them on the spot while we may peck at their minds in the meantime?"  
  
"Because *I* would rather chase them and see them grow tired, too tired to fight so it would be more than just an easy kill. I have a crude purpose for one of them," he replied sharply. "I have a debate to settle with the leader, Aragorn, that has nothing to do with you or your plans."  
  
"What a coincidence, Aragorn is in my plans as well," Sarumon responded in a delighted tone. Then he grew dark. "But you may not mettle too roughly with him. Play with him a bit, but nothing more. Understood? He is to be *alive* by the time he and the rest reach Isengard, or else I have intentions of my *own* for you."  
  
Wincing involuntarily, Legolas had to agree. "Fine. I will follow through with *your* scheme." *For now* he added mentally, sneering at his master. Sarumon, to his relief, seemed not to bother to break into his head to hear that.  
  
"Then enjoy yourself, Legolas. And remember – he is to be ALIVE."  
  
"Of course, my lord," Legolas replied acidly. Bowing and sprinting off, Legolas grinned secretively to himself. "I would not even *dare* to disobey you." 


	11. And The Truth Is...

A/N: Much thanks and credit goes out to Zephyr for the first two paragraphs. I tweaked them a little, yes, but she wrote the majority of is written there. Muchas gracias, mi amiga for the inspiration it gave me to write more and for your epic reviews which also sparked some little things. *g* Much thanks once again, and I'm sure she'll also be the one behind some of the plot later on. ^^  
  
Sam peered around the cell. Frodo was talking to himself, and Pippin was curled up in a murky corner, rocking gently back and forth. Almost no hope remained in the Hobbit's heart. He had lost track of the time they'd been in there. He could only guess at a few days. Or was it a week? Sam couldn't tell. His mind was too busy worrying about his master, who seemed to have given up entirely. But Sam had to cling to what shards of hope were left. He bravely held on to the thought of the rest of the Fellowship helping him, whenever that may be. His brain sternly told him there was nothing left to hope for, that the Fellowship didn't necessarily know they were in Isengard. But being the lively Hobbit he was, his heart told him to hope beyond reason, that they may yet be saved. Somehow.  
  
"What?" Pippin's head shot up unexpectedly, startling his other two companions mildly. Sam looked over at the young hobbit, who in turn looked slightly embarrassed as he slowly lowered his head, picking at his toes abashedly. The gardener's face twisted into that of fret. There was another problem that Sam was dealing with. Lately, the youngest member of their group had been talking to people who weren't there, looking for someone who couldn't come. It worried Sam, and he feared that Pippin was on the road to loosing his sanity. And again, his head told him, all hope was lost.  
  
~***~  
  
Boromir groaned loudly in protest when Aragorn urged his two comrades to climb the steep hill they found set before them. "I sense a darkness upon us, we *must* journey forth, press harder! I assure you, once we round this hill I will give you rest!"  
  
"Aragorn, please – neither of us cannot take this much longer," Gimli said, glancing at the Steward's stumbling body. "We have been trampling through these woods for days now without much of a rest. Every time we ask for a moment's peace, you protest that something bad will occur. For pity's sake, Aragorn, let us sit for five minutes at the least!"  
  
"No," Aragorn snapped, "we cannot linger. Do not take me for a fool, son of Gloin – I know the scent of the Forest far better than I should, and I can tell that if we stop for even five minutes, we will surely pay a wealthy price for our pause."  
  
"At first I thought you are crazy, then I thought you were mad, now I think you're insane," Boromir interjected, leaning against a tree. Through pants, he continued, "We do not deny your skills as a Ranger, but please, that hill is as steep as Caradhras, and our muscles scream in protest with every step!"  
  
Aragorn sighed. "Would you rather be mauled by Orcs?"  
  
"How does anyone ever put up with you," Gimli muttered under his breath. Throwing a swift glare in the Dwarf's direction, the Man strained his ears to hear the voices of the Forest.  
  
"I completely understand your weariness, friends, and I promise you a lengthy rest as soon as we reach the bottom of the hill. Until then we *must* press on."  
  
Moaning, Boromir lifted himself to his feet and shuffled over to where the other Man stood. "Alright, then. Off we go."  
  
Gimli made a sound of weak protest before sighing heavily, following behind the two Men with his axe slung over his shoulder. "You're so difficult, Aragorn…"  
  
Biting his tongue to keep from spitting out a saucy retort, Aragorn carefully replied, "It's a talent."  
  
"A talent that needs to be disposed of, and with haste."  
  
Three heads turned to meet the hard gaze of the new voice, only to lock eyes with those of fire and death. Aragorn and Boromir drew their swords immediately without hesitation, baring them at the unwanted arrival. Legolas smirked and swung down from his high perch amongst the trees, lethal dagger drawn and ready for use. His bow and arrows hung about his back in case they were needed; Gimli shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, growling at the Elven prince, eyeing the quiver warily. His axe was in both hands, gripped so tightly that his knuckles were white – his gloves he had taken off. There was an uncomfortable silence until Legolas made the first move.  
  
He attacked Gimli first, being the closest to him. Axe and blade clashed against each other, spitting flecks of light at sporadic moments, and the Dwarf feared for his life. He knew the Elf he was fighting had a strong background in combat, he had seen it with his own eyes, and he was not going to be an easy kill. Boromir swung behind Legolas, bringing his sword down to the armoured shoulder, but he found himself falling backwards, but quickly regaining his balance in time to strike against Legolas' keen Elf blade, pulling an expert swordsman trick on him to give him the opportunity he needed to sheath his sword in the flesh on Legolas' left side.  
  
But Legolas was too quick.  
  
He knew of the Man's intent, and grinned at him with his deathly fangs mockingly when he sent the human sprawling across the leaf-cloaked floor of the Forest, whirling swiftly around to confront Aragorn, their swords colliding on their sides, faces drawn to the blunt edge, Legolas snarling and Aragorn glaring. "I can't believe you're doing this, Legolas," he hissed to the Elf. "What has gotten into you?"  
  
His leg kicking out behind him to meet with Gimli's stomach, Legolas managed to fan kick Boromir out of his way as he felt Aragorn's body move to slash his blade against him and throw him over his back, but he had other ideas. Quickly dropping his hands to the ground, he lifted his body up into the air and snatched Aragorn's head between his ankles, arching his back and throwing the Man into a nearby tree, taking up Anduril, that of which Aragorn had lost in the attack. His feet made contact with the ground immediately, his upper body shooting up in time to knock Gimli backwards with the blunt side of Anduril with a mighty blow with his left arm and duel with Boromir fiercely with his right, still holding onto his Elven blade.  
  
After a bit of sword fight, Legolas got Boromir to lift his arm high enough that held his sword to leave a nasty gash across his chest, cursing when he didn't sink his sword into the Man's body instead. Kneeing the Man in the gut and striking the hilt of his sword on Boromir's head, knocking him out, the Elf jumped back at the Dwarven axe that came whizzing through the air, narrowly missing his stomach. Sheathing his dagger, Legolas retrieved his bow and an arrow from his back, pulling the taunt string to his cheekbone in threat, eyes slitting in a glare at the Dwarf. Gimli roared and charged, deftly cutting the fast arrow neatly in half to avoid death. He had remembered how Legolas himself, before all this confusion had taken place, taught him to slice a released arrow with his weapon with great expertise, and smiled inwardly at the Elf's maddened expression.  
  
"Forgot already, Legolas? I believe it was you who taught me that little trick, was it not?"  
  
"Indeed, I have let that lesson slip my mind. No worries, though, I will do away with you soon enough."  
  
"Ha! You expect me to believe your words? I have slew hundreds of Orcs and I am unscathed; do you expect me to start now with wounds, while I fight a mere Elf?"  
  
"Choose your words wisely, Gimli," Legolas responded icily. "They may be the cause of your death."  
  
"And you had better take more care in watching your back, Legolas."  
  
Crying a hideous shriek of pain, Legolas's hand clamped down on his shoulder, the black blood seeping out of the fresh wound. Turning to see Aragorn bearing an Elven dagger he had no memory of seeing prior to this, he snarled, smacking the Dwarf, kicking him rudely when he fell to his side, taking a stride over to the Man. "You have certainly caught me off guard. I was not expecting that, and you will pay for your gift."  
  
"I'd rather know why this happened, mellon." Aragorn's stern glare leveled with Legolas's gaze of hate and blood thirst. Studying the unmoving creature with trained eyes, he rubbed his fingers across the leather bound hilt of his weapon with suspicion. "You look and act as one of Saruman's unholy devices of destruction," he mused aloud, seeing the flame of hate change to a fire burning with repulsion. Aragorn was silent, his icy blue eyes biting into Legolas's yellow-tinted ones. "You have joined with him, haven't you," he asked flatly, knuckles turning white with force on his sword strong enough to break an ordinary one. Legolas didn't falter.  
  
"Your questions and your probing tires and angers me," the Elf steadily answered. "I came here for one reason and one reason alone. To destroy you, and I have every intention of carrying out that plan."  
  
"Did your slime ball of a master order this of you?"  
  
"No," Legolas replied as sweetly as he could. "This was my own plan. And now you are mine to torture and mine to kill, so please, if you want to die a less painful death, it would be wise not to struggle as much as you idiotic humans tend to do."  
  
Aragorn swung his dagger to clash with Anduril, his own sword, which Legolas had discarded and then picked up once again. He knew how to fight against one who had been trained with those of great skill and practiced in many years to perfection, but Legolas was one he would not expect to defeat. The Elf had a mean control over his own sword, and was using the way he had seen his foster father, Elrond, wield it in a time of great battle along side his sons against Orcs. Desperately he protected himself against Anduril's unforgiving blade, the sword singing as it cut through the air to connect with his arm, his shoulder, his side. Biting back cries of pain, he was grateful when an old Ranger's trick he had picked up knocked Anduril out of Legolas' hold, giving him the chance to advance and leave a neat wound on Legolas' chest, one that would indeed scar when it healed.  
  
Cursing wildly, Legolas unsheathed the Orcish dagger that was presented to him, feeling the surge of power through the hilt to his hand an up his arm. Grinning involuntarily, he fooled with Aragorn a bit more until he saw him weaken. Like a Cat he sprung forward, sending the Elvish blade into the air and into his hand, leaving Aragorn weaponless and vulnerable to any attack. Even so, he misjudged Aragorn's combat ability and was caught by surprise when Aragorn backed up against a tree, and grabbing hold of some seemingly unhealthy branches, climbed easily up with his back to the shaft, pushing off hard with his feet and landing a few feet off from his assailant, picking up Boromir's sword for defense.  
  
Legolas laughed harshly. "How delightful, you have been taught well."  
  
"Heh heh, Elrond was indeed a skilled tutor, was he not?"  
  
Smirking in return, Legolas charged at he Man with Elven speed, pushing off with his right leg to lift his left and rid Aragorn of his newly acquired item of war, sending him to the ground. With both swords at his neck, Legolas watched the Man pant heavily, unable to move from under his body. Aragorn's eyebrows relaxed, his eyes softening in hopes he could change Legolas's mind. "Legolas, please – I don't know what's come over you, I don't know why you are doing this, I don't know your reasons and your explanation for your cruelty, but I do know that the memory of the things we shared have not left my mind, nor will they ever, no matter what you do. Even if you kill me now, I will recall the moments of that one night… you remember it, don't you? I can tell. I can see that you yourself cannot bring your mind to forget it. It is strange how this happened, isn't it? The day this all started you were pulling harmless pranks on us, dropping acorns on my head and enjoying it all the while. Ah… yes, you *do* remember. Peculiar, isn't it? Then you come to this. What have we done, Legolas? Why have you allowed Saruman to pry and disease your mind with his games?"  
  
"Enough!" Legolas bellowed, fighting against his mixed feelings and oncoming headache from the turmoil bestowed upon them. "Enough of your words, Aragorn! You will be silent now and silent you will be forever!"  
  
As he got ready to draw the sharp edge of Anduril across its owner's throat, a voice probed into his head. *What did I say, Legolas? Do not kill him, I told you. And now you try to disobey me? I wouldn't take that chance if I were you, my pretty Elf. Return to me now, I have new work for you.*  
  
Roaring in dismay, Legolas dismounted Aragorn's body, throwing Anduril to his side and sheathing his own blade. "Next time we meet," he swore, "I will finish you off with my own hands!" And he was gone.  
  
Aragorn stared after him, then closed his fist around Anduril's hilt. "No, my friend," he murmured to the bloody blade, "I believe he will see to my death with his own hands – and yours as well."  
  
~***~  
  
Pippin nibbled on his lower lip, flinging a pebble at Frodo unintentionally, earning a glare for his troubles. Sighing, he looked over at Sam questioningly, hoping he would be the answer to his boredom. Alas, he was not, for the Hobbit gardener was too busy stacking shards of stone and pebbles into a pyramid, blissfully unaware of Pippin's eyes on him. Frodo had resulted to staring at the ceiling, his lips moving but his voice not making a sound; closer inspection proved that he was reciting a verse of poetry taught to him by his uncle Bilbo.  
  
Scooting back into his corner, he found himself thinking of Merry for the first time since the day they were put into their prison. Tears leaped to his eyes at the very thought of his deceased cousin, but he refused to let them fall. Memories flooded into his mind of days past, days of scourging through Farmer Maggot's field and patches, stealing mushrooms, corn, and carrots by the sack, laughing heartily as they were chased from the fields, collapsing onto lush green grass to observe their inventory, then bursting into rapturous fits of giggles when Merry made some 'casual' remarks about their expedition that left the Took smirking for weeks. Pippin smiled unconsciously when Merry's mental image came into his head. The voice he heard his head from time to time calmed him somewhat, to hear the reassuring talk of a female ease him back into the world.  
  
Pippin smiled wanly at that. That little voice he knew was not his imagination, nor would he ever believe it was. Surely Sam thought he was mad to reply verbally to questions and statements made by the female, and he flushed a deep red whenever he was caught in the act. Frodo didn't seem to care. It was if Frodo didn't care about anything anymore, ever since they were snatched away in that gruesome battle. The Ring, though, was still with him, and he was often seen fondling the golden band before depositing it back into his pocket, Gandalf's words still echoing in his head, no doubt.  
  
Cracking his big toe and scrunching up his nose at Sam when he looked up, Pippin adjusted the scarf adorning his neck, running a dirty hand through even more dirty hair. Sighing softly, he fidgeted, feeling Frodo's eyes on him momentarily before turning elsewhere. *He's really beginning to scare me,* Pippin thought to himself. *I swear I would slap him if I had the chance, but I wouldn't risk it, no sir.* Sighing again, he found his thoughts had returned to the unfortunate Brandybuck who for all he knew was lying dead on the blood-splattered grounds of Orthanc, his body caked in mud of death. He knew there was nothing he could do.  
  
But Merry… oh, he could never forget him, no matter what he did. Merry was so young, so…  
  
"Psssssssst… hey, Pip, Frodo, Sam, up here!"  
  
All three Hobbits looked up at the barred ceiling simultaneously. Pippin gave a cry, springing to his feet.  
  
"MERRY!!" 


End file.
